


Blood and Gold Dust

by Dominion_of_Dust1886



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Blood and Gore, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Had to do some drastic shit for this story, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Mama don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repressed Memories, Sorry Arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-16 11:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16953498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dominion_of_Dust1886/pseuds/Dominion_of_Dust1886
Summary: Arthur Morgan had his own reasons for keeping his shirt on. Like armor, it was a form of protection from his personal demons.There's probably a lot of errors in this, but it just sorta came out fairly fast. Bear with me! I'll update this in the future!





	Blood and Gold Dust

Arthur hated whips.

Detested them.

Hell, he stays far away from those high velocity pieces of evil incarnate even if the job specifically states that they were to be used. He would easily turn on his heel and leave. He had when Dutch tried to coerce him into a job that needed him to be intimidating with one.

Arthur had his reasons and Dutch knew it.

The man just **had** to test him when he said no.

So Arthur left his surrogate father behind at the ranch, blocking out his calls to come back, his feet taking him right to Boadicea and into the saddle. The dappled grey mare threw her head as she galloped away.

Arthur wouldn't have recalled the scenery while driving the horse back to camp. The run down homestead on the outskirts of West Elizabeth wasn't pretty. Sure the sunrises were amongst the more beautiful ones in the desert, but he saw none of it.

Just the cracking of whips.

He spurred Boadicea a little harder as he arrived back in camp. The scraggalers that were there had noted Arthur's arrival without the rest of the gang he set out with.

Hosea Matthews, the second of the Van der Linde Gang, had observed the young man as he rubbed down his horse. He noted the hard set of jaw, the near insistent sweeps of the brush against the horses flank. How Arthur roughly dropped the saddle on one of the fences still standing.

Hosea watched as Arthur lit a cigarette and smoked the tobacco slowly. It seemed to settle down his own nerves enough to pat a calmer hand on Boadicea's neck. A gentle murmur came from him as he apologized to the horse.

It caused the older man to stand from the fire and walk to Arthur's side. Hosea deliberately made noise, kicking pebbles and scuffing his boots in the dry earth. He noted Arthur had tipped his head slightly towards the sound. He left one hand on the horses neck while he waited.

Hosea hooked his thumbs in his belt, "so. Got that job done, eh?"

The hat blocked Arthur's eyes as he nodded, "sure," he drawled. With his accent, it always came out sounding like _shoare._

Hosea laughed through his nose and patted Boadicea's snout. The velvety texture nuzzled his palm for a treat. She favored Arthur but had accepted Hosea's treat willingly. She was a bit on the larger side of her weight class.

"Anything we should be worried about?" He pressed.

The younger man paused, head shaking slowly. That little pause had Hosea prod a little harder.

"Okay," he drawled out, "if you're sure?"

Arthur glanced down before turning his attention back to Boadicea. His fingers twisted themselves about her dark manes, a frown tugging his lips. Hosea saw the abrupt shift as Arthur's shoulders curled inwards. 

Before he could ask, the older man's attention was drawn to the upcoming sound and sight of kicked up desert dust.

Sure enough, Dutch, John, Davey and one of the Callander brothers were riding in. Arthur physically hunched against himself as he grated a disgusted half cough.

"Do me a favor," Arthur looked up at Hosea, "tell Dutch he can piss off if he's gonna bother the fuck out of me."

That statement had the older man blinking as Arthur stomped to his tent. He notes that he undoes the ties of his tent to engulf him in solitude. Arthur rarely shown anger, let alone curses too often.

"ARTHUR!" Dutch calls from The Count, dropping onto the packed earth, "Hosea! Where-"

"Dutch, give the boy space-"

"He ain't been a boy in fifteen years," Dutch made to pass his friend, "lost an ample opportunity for some money!"

"What happened?" Hosea gripped Dutch's shoulder. "Dutch-"

"Nothin'! Just had a job! Got a stick up his ass all of a sudden," he lifted his arm, indicating to the man's tent, "can't understand! He only had to wh... oh."

Color drained fast from the leaders face, the unfortunate clear dawning of what he nearly had his own friend do. He stared at the tent, already feeling his stomach clenching with regret.

"I'm 'fraid I royally screwed up," Dutch rubbed at his eyes.

Arthur, meanwhile had sat on his cot, wishing the tremble in his body would pass. His jaw ached as he focused on loosening his tense body, flexing his fingers. A look at those digits would reveal they were the only thing steady on him.

The sudden pull of adrenaline fading had Arthur hunching on himself. His hands clutching his jacket closer to him. The night was warm, but he felt a chill sweep through him. He shivered.

_CRACKCRACKCRACK!!!_

His jaw tightens, eyes clenched shut. His tent awash in a gloom the desert knew not of. His own little world. Nothing could harm him here.

Still, Arthur found himself kicking off his boots and wrapping his body tight in his bedroll. He pressed his back firmly against the wagons outer wall. Sleep was flitting and he didn't want to fall into its embrace. Yet it latched onto him easily.

-*-

It was 1889. Arthur, age twenty six, was stuck babysitting again. John Marston, at the age of almost seventeen, had yet to be immersed in the finer details of bank robbery. The boy, for Arthur still considered John to have those boyish tendencies in him, had much to learn before Dutch and Hosea wanted him in.

They holed themselves up outside of a town aptly called Tumbleweed, a barely populated town a few miles outside Amarillo. John, over a game of poker and a few drinks with some locals had heard of this place.

A wealthy man from out east thought to build a grand plantation and make his second fortune in growing tobacco. Poor sod had no idea he had bought a parcel of land that would do no such thing. Had built a grand house, lodgings for potential workers, a barn the works. A few other fellow persons had erected a shabby saloon. Word went round that the man had a large sum of money just waiting to be taken.

It seemed too good to be true, given the state of the homestead. It appeared worn down, tired from the scorching desert heat. The main house remained standing but had seen better days. Yet there were still workers mingling amongst the nearly deserted town as the two men observed their mark under the noon day sun.

Arthur leaned against the saloon wall, swiping a hand across his sweaty forehead, "you sure about this one?"

John, mirroring him, hands stuffed in his pockets, "they seemed sure enough about it."

The older man squinted, taking in the comings and goings of people. They shied away from them, heads low while others observed the pair with distrustful eyes.

They didn't belong here, those looks said.

"Don't like this," Arthur murmured. "We stick out like sore thumbs. Too risky."

John frowns, "it's a reliable source."

"I'm not saying it isn't, but I got a gut feeling this is a bad 'un."

The younger man spat a curse and sulked. Arthur saw he really wanted to do this job, probably thought this one to be his turning point. He saw too much of himself in that lanky frame to brush it off.

However Arthur trusted his gut when they staked small towns.

Arthur stood upright, lightly punching John's shoulder, "come'n. We can run this past Dutch if it's worth it."

That seemed to perk the darker haired man up a smidge. He followed Arthur as they made their way to their horses.

But stopped short when a group had gotten in their way. Arthur kept his shoulders and posture relaxed, eyes darting between the five men. He noted they dressed in a similar fashion of ponchos and wider brimmed hats.

"Gentlemen," he called, already wary about them just standing between them and the horses.

The one in the middle, a Mexican, tipped his head, " _hola, amigo_. Whatcha doin' in this place, eh?"

Arthur shrugged, eyeing John, "jus' fixin' to leave is all."

"Ah. Right, _gringo._ Where's you headin' to?" They remained where they stood.

" _Arthur_ ," John hissed to his left.

Another pair of men slunk out from behind the barn on their right. They rounded a fence on silent feet, hands hovering on their gun belts.

Arthur watched the lead man, "just off to Amarillo. Got some friends waitin' for us."

"Yeah?" The man wasn't convinced. "You ain't that _gringo_ from that gang, eh?"

Arthur's finger twitched. He tipped his head towards John, twitching the corner of his mouth in a quiet warning. His other hand, the one only John could see, flicked in a shooing motion. The younger man slowly took a half step back.

"Eh, eh," the Mexican tutted, the sound of clicking hammers breaking the quiet of the town. "Big _dinero_ for you, man."

" 's that so?" Arthur chuckled, whipping his gun out; "John," he hissed and fired.

The hip shot was lucky as it shot a chunk off the man's cheek off. John managed to gut shot the two from the barn, their cries eliciting the others to shoot wildly while searching for cover.

Arthur flung himself behind a boulder as shots flew his way. The stench of cordite flooding his nostrils as he put a bullet in the barrel.

John ducked behind a crate, breathing hard as the shots became more organized. He shot wildly as Arthur whistled for their horses.

"Guess we ain't comin' back!" John shouts above the din.

Arthur sights one man, nicking him in the shoulder, "ya think, GENIUS?!?!"

Their horses, bodies shuffling from the amount of smoke and gunfire, had arrived as they quickly threw themselves onto their backs. Their spurs digging into their sides in a last ditch effort to put plenty of distance between them.

"RIDE FAST, MARSTON!" Arthur swung in the saddle, shooting with his carbine repeater.

He missed the opportunity to shoot down the sniper that was west of them. He didn't see them sighting down their scope as they shot Arthur's horse square in the eye.

Arthur went down hard, his foot caught up in the stirrup as his mount lost its life just as fast. They tumbled in the dirt, the weight of the horse falling on Arthur's leg. He cried out, the weight holding him down.

"ARTHUR!!"

John, the stupid kid he was, had turned his horse in an attempt to get Arthur. He was so far ahead. It was suicide.

"GO!" Arthur shouts, "GET OUTTA HERE!"

Arthur pulled out his revolver, clicking back the hammer and pulling the trigger. He's able to hit at least four of the men before the gun in kicked from his grasp.

He doesn't say anything as darkness from a kick to the head blacks him out.

\----

Arthur's arms ached, his shoulders burning. The taste of desert sand and the copper tang of blood on his tongue. His feet barely scrapping the floor beneath him.

"Unngg," he blurridly opened his eyes.

 _Devil's balls._ The Mexican from earlier stood before him, he grinned a missing toothed smile. The shot Arthur hit him with was a bloody mess.

" _Hola, gringo._ "

He threw a quick jab into Arthur's stomach.

He wasn't prepared, the fist blew what remaining air from his lungs, his body sagging heavily. That was how he became aware his arms were the only things holding him upright. The rope wrapped around his wrists cutting off circulation to his hands. Arthur's bare feet just ghosting off the dirt.

The man grabbed Arthur's hair and wrenched it up to his new facial injury, a knife appearing in his hand. "Pretty, eh _gringo_? Gotta repay you nicely, eh?"

He dropped his head, the man cutting away Arthur's shirt. He wasn't careful about it either as he left welts from his knife every which way on Arthur's skin. Still, Arthur remained tight lipped, fingers grasping the rope as the man finished.

The man held the remains of Arthur's shirt in front of him, "nice shirt. I keep it, eh?"

Arthur merely swung back and kicked the scrawny ass man into the wooden boards behind him.

Laughter erupted from an audience Arthur was not aware of. Three others from Tumbleweed chuckled and coughed out smoke as their companion dragged himself from his not so comfortable position against the wall. The enclosed space muffled any sounds coming from outside.

He snarled, fetching his knife, "you're dead-"

"No," the door to Arthur's left opened and a broad figure stepped inside, "Horacio, ya know better than to play me guests."

"Dammit," Arthur grunted, "Davis Eaclaugh. Thought you was dead."

The head of the Eaclaugh Clan, Davis Eaclaugh had a reputation he held in Oklahoma territory. Tall Welshman, black hair, a speech impediment from a slug to the jaw. He ran quite a syndicate for such a small area. Dutch found a way to enterprise there for a few weeks, but it was enough to disband the Eaclaugh Clan. Ran them as far as the Canadian border from what Arthur read in the papers.

Seemed like he found them again.

"Arthur...Morgan...wouldn'ta have expected ya 'ere." Davis ground out, the man stepped too close; Arthur nearly gagged from the body odor, " 'ave been waitin' fer ya ta show up. Saws yer face in dem wanted posters."

Arthur huffed a dry laugh, "aww, my pretty mug? Cherish it much?"

"Yous guys cos' me my gang," he sneered, removing something from his belt.

Davis draped the object around Arthur's neck, the end flapped against Arthur's pectoral. The weight of leather and the length as it hung there gave Arthur an idea of what it was.

A bull whip.

"Yeah, yer pretty mug was thar," Davis gripped the handle of the whip, "too bad fer ya."

He snapped the whip, the length scraping against Arthur's neck, ripping it raw as Davis cracked it towards him again. The end caught Arthur's chin, ripping a diagonal line in the flesh.

Arthur knew pain; a bullet to the leg, knife in the guts, plenty of animal attacks and a plethora of bumps and bruises. 

But the sting of the whip scraping away his only protection now that his shirt was gone was a pain he never expected. It burned, the pain lingering beyond what he knew. The sudden drop of blood from his chin dripped instantly to his chest. 

Arthur shouted, body twitching from the contact. He involuntarily shied away when Davis brushed a finger along his handiwork. 

Davis laughed, "likes it? Whips are me friend. 'Ave been fer years. Used dem on stubborn fooking cows backs in 'homa. Had'ta add glass sherds to git'em moovin'. Nasty on our skin. Stings like a fooker, eh?"

Arthur grit his teeth, it burned. 

"Prob'ly can only take a few more strikes. Bu' don' worry; I won' hit yer pretty mug this time." Davis surveyed his whip, caressing the leather. "Gotta 'ave it be recognized by yer pals."

He stepped behind the younger man as Arthur desperately tried and failed to break free. His arms were in complete agony, wrists barely grasping the rope. He was pretty sure he popped one of his arms from the socket.

The crack resounded long after the strike made contact against Arthur's back. Arthur arched, another shout escaping his lips. The prickle of tears threatening to fall while his blood did.

It didn't stop. Davis Eaclaugh brought that whip, lashing and devilish again and again. All Arthur knew was that insufferable pain, the trickle of warm liquid sheeting down his back. 

Arthur Morgan just took it. Unable to move as he focused on surviving. 

\---

Night. Oh, sweet night. The whipping had ceased hours ago, yet the searing torment of his back hadn't left him. Even blacking out hadn't taken away its touch. He woke to it, still hanging from his arms as he sagged.

Arthur didn't have any idea how long they whipped him nor how long he was there. Only the constant sting engulfing the entirety of his back. 

Trying to ease the pressure on his shoulder, Arthur stretched, his toes hardly finding any grip on the dirt. The stretch only multiplied his discomfort. His wounds must have attracted blood sucking flies as they buzzed away from him.

A short whistle came from his right, but he attributed it to a hallucination. It came again, insisting. A familiar face had become framed by the broken window, he recognized it through his hazy sight.

Arthur's head hung, he barely able to raise it, "J-John?"

The slight man shimmied between the planks of the building, light from the moon making his gaunt features ghoulish.

"Arthur...shit," John gaped, eyes wide on Arthur's state. His hand reaches out, setting carefully on Arthur's bicep. 

Arthur blinked, "what're you...doin'...'ere?"

"Gettin' you out," John whispered, "followed you being brought here."

"Wh-ich is?" Arthur hissed; John's hand had brushed against one of the opened welts on his back.

"A farm north of Hanging Rock. Bastards musta had it for a while. They call themselves the 'Del Lobo Gang'."

"Never heard of em'," Arthur managed. 

"Same," John's gaze caught sight of the rope tied to Arthur's wrists, "I ain't tall enough."

"Well, I ain't exactly movin', boy," Arthur's lids blinked slowly. It was getting harder to focus on John. 

"Hey!" John patted Arthur's cheek. "Don't be dyin' on us! Dutch an' the rest are here."

"Eaclaugh's too," the older man grimaced, "gave me these."

"Shit," John repeated, head swiveling about himself, "I can't cut the rope-"

"Shoot it," Arthur supplied. 

"Can't start shootin' til-"

A racket boomed beyond the confines of the shack, rattling the frame. Dust and debris floated above them as the sound of flames crackled to life. More sound flooded their ears as flickering light peaked from between the wooden walls.

"Nevermind," John wrapped one of his arms about Arthur's waist while the other pointed the gun barrel towards the rope.

Arthur groaned, "yer gonna miss it, Marston."

"I ain't! Just hold still!"

The retort of gunfire came close to them.

"I ain't movin', genius," Arthur supplied.

The younger man huffed angrily, "should leave your complainin' ass."

"Christ, boy! If yer gonna shoot it, shoot-"

The bark of John's Cattleman Revolver was earpiercing in the shack, but it was enough to sever a portion of the rope. It let a little slack which lowered Arthur to a kneeling position on the ground. John helped hold his surrogate brother steady, knife back in hand.

"I gotcha," John began hacking at the thick weave as Arthur sags heavily onto him. "I gotcha, brother."

The door flew open as the din of gunfire erupted beside them. John startles slightly, but only nods, the figure their leader silhouetted in the firelight. 

"Dutch! I almost got him free!"

Arthur knew not what happened; that portion was hazy with his blood loss. He remembers hearing Dutch whisper his name, so broken by how his brother in arms hung. The blood drying in the desert air. He recalls the quivering touch of fingers on his hair.

Most of what came next was a blur of fire and gunsmoke. Blood and the golden shine of desert sand, like fleeting gold dust. The sight of Davis Eaclaugh riding behind them with his gun raised, then falling from a bullet to the head. The heavy weight of Arthur's Lancaster Repeater dropping from his numb grip.

It was sporadic pangs of agonizing jolts in a wooden cart, a hand pressed to his arm. The murmur of a soothing voice telling him they were almost back to camp. 

"Mrs. Grimshaw! Bessie!" 

The sound of shuffling feet, followed by exclamations of surprise. More hands dragging him from the cart, grabbing more roughly than usual. Arthur whimpered as the pain escalated, his body trying to curl into himself. 

"You're okay, Arthur," the soft spoken Bessie soothed him.

Something cool pressed to his face, his torn chin. A blessing beyond the scorching air, the firm earth.

Then softness greeted him, his body laying on his stomach to his cot. He heard Bessie shooing away the rubbernecking members of camp, they would be no help. 

-*-

Morning dawned cool and quiet. Camplife was still far from fully awake as Arthur blinked his eyes. The sunlight peaked between the tents edges, illuminating his belongings. 

For the first time in a long while, the ache of his back flared up. More of a dull ache than it was ten years ago as the memory came back. Course it didn't help he pressed into the wagon either, the sides more than likely aggravating the healed over scars. Bessie's salve and Mrs. Grimshaw's nurse expertise had saved his back for the most part. 

Yet the raw, gravel feeling in the back of his throat told him more. His screams must have been muffled by his jaw as he clamped down on his fist in the night. Welts from his teeth dotted his fingers. 

It was the longest two months Arthur was kept from joining the other's on a job. A month of healing, salves and blood soaked bandages. Stitches littering his back, learning to sleep on his stomach. One point using leeches to alleviate swelling in his popped shoulder. At least a week more before he was allowed to participate in chores and supply runs. Nearly two months of recovery before he was back as Dutch's lead man.

But those nights in between were fraught with the cracking of whips. Waking up in the middle of the night when a log in the fire popped just right. A crack of late afternoon thunder feeding the horses. Bar fights that had something or someone thrown into his back. All those instances thrown him back ten years; arms bound and the devilish whistle of leather in his head.

Arthur sighed, rubbing his face.

He didn't want to have those pitying eyes on him, hated the vulnerability those two months put him through. Arthur made it a habit to be dressed or at least have a shirt covering his back when retiring to his tent. Bathing were far from prying eyes, declining the company when he was in town with a proper bathhouse. Arthur wasn't keen on talking about those barely seen scars.

Still he carefully removed his shirt, a proper button down in this climate, in exchange for a cleaner one. A nice vest over the dirty spots that wouldn't come clean no matter how many times it was washed. It was like armor. A protective shell Arthur put on before rejoining the rest of the gang outside his hidden world.

The night had brought cooler weather to the desert, the onset of winter coming soon. Arthur breathed in the crisp air, the tendrils of his memories already fading. Arthur had ten years to accept what he faced and continued to prosper.

He exited his tent, ready for more.


End file.
